He is sitting with his beloved on the lawn. Close to them, her aunt is nursing her chlorosis under a red parasol and with a novel in her bony lap. Up in the balcony above sit I, as Providence, and see everything, myself unseen.
"You shall be my sweetheart," says my little boy.
"Yes," says Erna.
"I have a sweetheart already in Copenhagen," he says, proudly.
This communication naturally by no means lowers Erna's suitor in her eyes. But it immediately arouses all Auntie's moral instincts:
"If you have a sweetheart, you must be true to her."
"Erna shall be my sweetheart."
Auntie turns her eyes up to Heaven:
"Listen, child," she says. "You're a very naughty boy. If you have given Dir—Dir——"
"Dirty," says the boy.